


A Dog To Walk With You

by neil_gaiman_wannabe



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 23:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neil_gaiman_wannabe/pseuds/neil_gaiman_wannabe
Summary: Sandor begrudgingly agrees to escort Arya to her wedding ceremony





	A Dog To Walk With You

“Can’t believe you roped me into this,” Sandor grumbled. Arya stood beside him, head barely reaching his chest. Her mouth was pressed closed in a tight-lipped smile as she turned to look up at him.

“We both know this is just as much for you as it is for me,” she said, reaching to straighten the clasp with the Clegane house crest that fastened his cloak.

Sandor mumbled some complaint under his breath but let her finish her ministrations. He was shivering slightly, standing out in the open Winter air as the snow fell in heavy clumps. He was dressed in a simple, but fine leather jerkin and trousers. His long hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of his head. Beric Dondarrion’s sword hung at his side.

“You could’ve at least told me to wear some warmer clothes,” he said as Arya moved back to his side. “Didn’t figure on being out in the middle of the fucking woods. Unless your real plan is to bring me out here to freeze to death.”

Arya laughed.

“After all he’s been through, is a chill wind to be the end of the mighty Hound?” she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“Not bloody likely,” Sandor answered. “I’m still counting on you to make good on your threat.” He looked at her with a smirk. “What was it again? Some day I’m going to put a sword through your eye and out the back of your skull. Isn’t that right? You were a burr in my ass, even back then. Doubt you’ll let anything else do me in till you decide it’s time.”

Arya returned his smirk. “Then you best stay in my good graces,” she said. “If you want to lead a long and happy life.”

“Besides,” she added, gesturing to wear a strip of cloth stretched across Sandor’s right eye. “You look as though someone already tried to stick a blade through you.”

“It was the cunt’s fucking thumb,” Sandor said, swatting her hand away from his face. “Tried to crush my head like a fucking apple.” The memory of his brother made Sandor grimace. Arya notice the change in his expression and withdrew her hand.

“Good thing your skull is thicker then an apple, I suppose,” Arya shrugged.

“What are we even waiting for?” Sandor grumbled. “Your groomsbride need much more time to perfume himself?”

Arya smacked the side of his arm. “I told you to leave him alone,” she said. “He’s under my protection now.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt he’s under you,” Sandor mumbled.

“Jon will fetch us when it’s time,” Arya said, ignoring his comment. “The last few guests are arriving. Then we’ll begin.”

Sandor gave Arya a side-eyed look. She was dressed in her normal tunic and trousers, though they seemed to have been rigorously cleaned, no doubt at Sansa’s insistence. Her Catspaw dagger rested above her left hip and her stupid little sword lay sheathed at her right. Her hair was twisted up into an elaborate bun that sat high on the back of her head. Aside from that the only noticeable change to her appearance was that she had swapped her normal cloak for a far more stylized dark grey one. It ran down her back in a long train that trailed at least a foot behind, gliding across the snow like a pen on paper. It was decorated with the head of a direwolf stitched into the center and it’s edges were trimmed with grey fur. A proper wedding cloak.

She stood straight, left hand clenched at her side and right hand drumming against Needle’s hilt.

“Will you stop that racket?” Sandor said gruffly after a moment of silence. “What’re you scared or something?”

“I’m not scared,” Arya said defensively. “I’m just cold.”

“I’m cold,” Sandor said. “You’re scared.“

He looked at her meaningfully.

“Of course you’re scared,” he said, straightening himself and looking ahead. “You’re almost there and you’re afraid you won’t make it.”

“He’ll be there,” he added after a moment. “You’ll make it and he’ll be there waiting for you.”

Arya took a deep breath and nodded her head slightly.

“I know,” she said, voice soft but determined.

“What’ve you got in your hand, anyway?” Sandor asked, grabbing her left wrist and pulling her clenched fist up. Arya opened her palm without argument and displayed what she was holding: a small acorn.

“The fuck is that for?” he asked, obviously bewildered.

“It’s for him,” Arya answered. “It’s for Gendry.”

Sandor looked even more confused.

“He’ll understand,” she shrugged, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. “It’s a promise of sorts, I suppose.”

Sandor grunted his acknowledgement.

There was a shuffling of feet and Samwell Tarly peeked his around the corner of the wall.

“Oh, ah, hello,” he said with a small smile. He seemed surprised to see Sandor standing next to Arya. “We’re all collected and ready for the ceremony,” he said to her.

“Will you be taking your seat, Ser Clegane?” he looked up at the massive man.

“I’m not a ser,” Sandor snarled. “And I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

Samwell seemed at a loss and was unable to answer, nervously looking back and forth between Arya and Sandor.

“Sandor will be escorting me,” Arya explained.

Samwell’s eyes widened, but he nodded and ducked back behind the wall.

“You really need to improve your manners,” Arya said, shaking her head.

“Don’t get so high and mighty,” Sandor returned. “You’re hardly any better then me.”

At that moment a soft strumming began in the wood within the wall, carried on the back of the gentle winter wind.

“It’s time,” he said.

“It’s time,” she repeated.

Sandor lowered his right arm and held his hand out to her. Arya reached up and took his hand in hers. He pulled her closer and linked their arms before the pair set off at a slow pace, rounding the corner and entering the weirwood.


End file.
